


nothing but

by sharkfish



Series: none better, nothing but [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Castiel Learns to be Human, Castiel in the Bunker, Everyone Is Alive, Fallen Castiel, Falling In Love, First Time, Honestly canon is a mess in this, Human Castiel, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 18:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9836894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkfish/pseuds/sharkfish
Summary: “Sam,” he says. “I have so many feelings.”Sam looks up from the book he is carefully annotating. Castiel recognizes his face sayingwhy the fuck do I always end up with this shit.“About what?”“Everything. It’s just so much. How do you go through the day with so much inside you?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is, in many ways, a love letter to poetry. Sorry/not sorry.

In the morning, Castiel finds Dean making breakfast like nothing had happened. While Dean stands at the stove, Castiel busies his hands with a sink full of dishes. “Hello, Dean,” he says, striving for friendly but just sounding gruff.

“Hey, Cas.” 

Something sparks in his heart so sharply it makes him catch his breath. Dean was the first person in Castiel’s entire existence to treat him with any sort of affection, and all that after Castiel nearly killed him. More than once.

“Would you like to hear a joke?” 

Dean turns to face him. Castiel is proud of himself for recognizing his expression as skeptical and amused at the same time. “Sure. Let’s hear it.” 

Castiel tells his joke, though he falters more than once. He doesn’t actually understand it, but Dean’s lips are pursed like he’s holding his breath, like he’s holding in a grin. 

Dean is silent for a long moment, then is overtaken with laughter that goes on so long that the eggs start to burn. “Do you --” he can barely breathe, still trying to shove down the giggles, bent against the countertop to hold himself upright. “Do you know what that means?” 

“Of course,” Castiel says. “The child did not want his parents to eat his cat.” He frowns. “It was my understanding that your culture does not generally consume animals kept as pets.” 

“No,” Dean says, holding up a hand. “Please, just… stop. And don’t tell any more jokes, ok?” 

“You laughed,” Castiel says, defensive. 

“Cas,” Dean says. He pokes at the eggs in the skillet for no reason Castiel can see. They are already ruined. “That means -- ‘pussy’ is another word for, um, vagina. They weren’t talking about the cat.” 

Castiel’s eyes widen almost comically. “The man was going to consume his wife’s vagina?” 

“Jesus.” Castiel can see Dean’s cheeks reddening. “He was going to give her oral, ok?” 

Castiel bites at his lower lip. “Oh,” he says, trying to sound like he understands. He hates deceiving these humans that have become his family, but he’s embarrassed to be causing Dean embarrassment just because of his ignorance of human euphemisms. The computer had shown him jokes, after all, even if he chose the wrong one to start with; certainly it can explain this code Dean is using so he can put a stop to this embarrassment circle. 

When Castiel has a chance to search for it behind his locked door, the images -- and then a clinical description swimming amongst a sea of smut and pornography -- make his stomach roll. Dean has done this before, Castiel surmises. It makes his mouth taste sour. 

Then he sees the opposite heterosexual act, a woman with a man’s penis in her mouth. Cock, Castiel mouths, trying it out. He imagines the act with two men instead, then banishes the thought immediately, glancing up to make sure his door hasn’t magically unlocked and allowed someone (Dean) to look over his shoulder. 

Castiel looks back at the screen, though the mostly-female subjects hold little interest for him. Maybe that part of humanity was still beyond his reach. It makes him kind of sad, especially when he can see all these faces in front of him, many of them contorted in the throes of a heavenly type of ecstasy. It reminds Castiel of silent glossolalia, the same kind of trance, the same kind of channeling of something that burns like the sun.

Many in Heaven spoke of sex as the worst of human sin, moreso than even the most violent or cruel of acts they were almost as obsessed with. God doesn’t make those kinds of mistakes, though, Castiel is sure, and the mortal plane was full to the brim with creatures who require intercourse for procreation. Humans aren’t even the only ones who do it for reasons outside of bearing God’s fruit. 

Castiel lived peacefully in heaven for millennia -- for all whens and wheres, beyond the physical universe where time is kept -- but how he managed it is a mystery. There are so many dogmas his brethren uphold when he can’t even see the sense in them in the first place. 

Like how the things he used to see in Dean’s dreams could possibly be wrong. 

It occurs to him for the first time that maybe that was what Dean wanted to hide when he snarled at Castiel to stay out of his mind. Because on the rare occasion Dean wasn’t dreaming about Hell, he dreamed about men. Faceless naked men. 

For the first time in his long, long life, a flutter moves into Castiel’s stomach. 

 

Castiel thought he was fully human months ago, but it’s obvious that he was wrong, because things are changing inside him, his mind and heart and thoughts; he starts dreaming, he gets a pimple on his shoulder, he sneezes for the first time. 

And he has just… this emotional energy he can’t even begin to describe. Sometimes he’s mad for no particular reason (well, sometimes he’s just hungry) and he snaps at Charlie and the thing inside of him feels even bigger and brighter and more fevered-hot than his grace. His affection for these other humans grows exponentially until he can’t imagine a life that doesn’t include them. 

He has trouble sleeping; his thoughts come and go like whirling dervishes, making it impossible to relax.

Yes, he has figured out what _relaxing_ means. It means a long shower at the end of the day. It means getting a little buzzed and giggly, limbs loose. 

“Sam,” he says. “I have so many feelings.” 

Sam looks up from the book he is carefully annotating. Castiel recognizes his face saying _why the fuck do I always end up with this shit._ “About what?” 

“Everything. It’s just so much. How do you go through the day with so much inside you?” 

“I’m sorry, Cas, but I’m not sure what you’re saying.” 

“I’m speaking English, aren’t I?” 

Sam’s eyes widen. “Whoa,” he says. “What is going on with you?” 

“Feelings! Ideas! Thoughts! Dreams! All of it, just scrambled together and served at random. How can you function?!” 

“You’re… angry?” 

“And other things. Now I can’t sleep, just thinking about it.” 

“Well. I guess the first thing you should do is start working off some of that energy. Dean goes on long drives, I do some meditational yoga. You have to have something that gets you back in focus.” 

“I don’t have a car,” Castiel says, “and I don’t want Dean to laugh at me.” 

“Now that you’re human, you’re going to have to start exercising. You’ve gained weight from all that Dean food. Exercise can be very meditational. You should try running.” 

“Where should I run to?” 

Sam coughed a laugh. “There’s a treadmill in the gym. I’ll just… I’ll show you.” 

So Castiel takes up running. At first it’s just the constant lifting and dropping of his feet, the sheer monotony of staring at an off-white wall while his lungs and thighs burn, hating every second.

And then it happens. The reason people run in place for what seems like forever. Sam said it’s just the release of endorphins. Endorphins that exist to help humans survive with a hard shove forward. 

It feels great. 

He runs for longer and longer, until his legs fill out with gorgeous defined quadriceps. The rest of him, too, until he’s lean and fast and he can easily re-focus his thoughts with just a short run. He has to do this a lot and he is distinctly aware that he needs this most after interacting with Dean. 

The winter is so long and cold. At breakfast Sam gives updates about the outside world from the news aggregate on his phone. “Shit,” he says. “Half of KC-Mo is out of power because of this ice storm.”

“Oh man, another fucking storm. Six inches this time, Cas. Can you believe that?” 

Dean shuffles in wearing his warmest flannel pants but, inexplicably, nothing on his upper half. “Lyin’ about your dick again, Sammy? We all know it’s not that big.” 

“Why would someone lie about the size of their penis?” Castiel says, perplexed enough to stop shoving as much food in his mouth as possible. The night before, Dean had prepared a perfect spinach and bacon quiche. He told Castiel that he could deal with the green stuff since there was basically more bacon than eggs in it anyway. It is, like all of the food Dean cooks, the best thing Castiel has ever eaten. 

“Um,” Dean says. 

Sam does that hand thing that means _your angel, dude, your problem_. Castiel does not like feeling like a problem. Why doesn’t Sam see that Castiel _has_ to learn how to be human? He has 37 years worth of cultural immersion to catch up on, and he can’t guarantee even to himself that he won’t be kicked out of this bunker sometime in the future. And he knows the best way to prevent that is to become _useful_. Though on further reflection, whether or not people lie about their genitals probably won’t get him there.

Dean looks down at his mostly-devoured slice of quiche, then up again, laughing open-mouthed but not from his eyes. “Because chicks like big cocks, Cas. No one wants a needle dick, you know?” 

It’s Castiel’s turn to look down at his lap. 

“You’re, uh, you’re not -- you don’t have to worry about that,” Dean says.

Castiel and Dean both turn scarlet and go their opposite directions as quickly as possible. For Castiel, that means hitting the treadmill, peeling his t-shirt off once it’s soaked with sweat, pounding out all of his confusion and sadness and anger and lust and fear. He goes to that place where all that matters is to keep moving his feet. He turns up the miles per hour a couple clicks. He’s already done eight miles. 

Approaching the ninth, the gym door bursts open. Castiel had adjusted the treadmill on the first day so he had a direct view of the door -- always a smart idea, even in a house of friends -- and he takes a misstep, nearly falls on his face on the treadmill before he can get it stopped.

It’s Dean, and the first expression on his face is a mix of surprised and relieved, but he stops in the doorway with his arm stretched towards the door, staring. Staring at Castiel. 

That flutter in Castiel’s stomach goes wild and he thinks for a quick moment that he might vomit or pass out. Dean looks much the same. “I, uh -- I thought -- I was looking for this, uh --” 

“This is a gym, Dean,” Castiel says, “where people exercise. There isn’t anything here you’d be interested in.” 

Castiel remembers he is shirtless. Would it be more or less awkward to retrieve his shirt from where he threw it or just act like he hasn’t noticed Dean’s eyes? Just one more on an endless list of things about being human that Castiel has yet to learn. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “you know me.” He sounds false and now his eyes are off to the side. Castiel has learned that this is rarely a good sign with humans. “I was looking for the -- where you moved the stuff that was stored in Charlie’s room?” 

Castiel cants his head. “In the hidden room off the library. Sam said he showed you.” 

“Oh, yeah. Right. I forgot. Um -- see you later.” 

Castiel can’t get back to his groove. His legs are starting to cramp, and he paces up and down the basement hallway until they cool down. Dean was lying. It snaps at him like a bullwhip -- another feeling to add to his mental library of unnamed emotions.

 

Castiel has been pretending to be human for so long, sometimes he forgets that he’s not. And then he’s reminded, in little and in big ways, that he’s not like other people. That, even though they are both soldiers, he’s not like Dean. He and Charlie and Sam may all be geeks and nerds, but Castiel will never be _like_ them. He’s something else. 

They go out to dinner. The four of them, Kevin back at the bunker sick with the flu or anxiety, and they make an odd quad: Charlie clinging to Castiel’s arm, even as her and Sam bicker and banter; Dean walks next to Sam, even though he and Castiel are silent and brooding. It’s humid and horrible and Castiel scowls, acutely aware of being sweaty. Of being wet, denim rubbing at his inner thighs. The humidity of Kansas in high summer is something Castiel didn’t think could be experienced above at least the sixth level of Hell, but God makes mistakes now. 

Mistakes like Castiel. 

“What’s got you all crankypants?” Dean says, giving Castiel an unreadable stare. 

Castiel scowls deeper. “I’m… moist.”

Dean and Sam both make the same strange half-cough, half-choking sound that used to make Castiel think they were dying but eventually learned was just another multi-layered human song. 

“I didn’t realize Kansas was so humid,” Castiel says. 

And the dynamic is weird, having dinner at a place near their home, a home with a solid, immovable, encased-in-three-feet-of-concrete address. Castiel had never been a regular before. 

The place is in a little town outside of Lebanon, and it’s called Las Canteras. They all order fajitas except for Sam, who orders some vegetable-filled pepper thing. The food is good. Not as good as Dean’s, but a pleasure all the same, and Castiel has learned to love the full feeling after a good meal, the kind of feeling where Dean might pop the top button of his jeans and pat his belly in appreciation. Castiel is human enough to realize this is not appropriate in public. 

Castiel has started to forget what Heaven was like. It certainly wasn’t like this: full of enjoyment, full of life, full of laughter. Castiel is even starting to understand some of the banter and jokes the rest of the group throws around. 

Back at home, Castiel excuses himself to his room. He’s been reading a lot of poetry lately, looking for things to give Dean, but he hasn’t found the perfect one yet. The internet told him Rumi was full of love poems so he starts there, a thick anthology that he reads two or three poems a night from. 

He doesn’t admit to himself -- and certainly to no one else -- that he thinks he might be in love with Dean. If _in love_ means something taking flight in his stomach, flying up to his throat, every time Dean is around. If _in love_ means wanting so intensely and chronically that he doesn’t know what to do with the feeling. If _in love_ means he dreams about Dean touching him. They haven’t sat next to each other on the loveseat in a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Sam,” Castiel starts, then pauses, considering his words. Eventually he decides to be blunt about it. “I have erections,” he says, “and I don’t know how to make them stop.”_  
>  _Sam chokes on nothing. “Wow, dude,” he says. “Wow. Not what I expected.”_
> 
> _“But you can help?”_
> 
> _“Uh,” Sam says, “look, Cas, you’re one of my best friends, but I don’t feel that way about you--”_
> 
>  
> 
> _Exasperated, Castiel says, “I didn’t mean literally.”_

Castiel has a problem, and it’s called erections. He knows human males get them from time to time, and he knows -- in theory -- how they can be handled, but his seem especially pervasive. He wakes up with them; he gets them in the shower; sometimes he can feel the beginning of one when Dean looks at him in a particular way, with a smile in his eyes, or runs a hand along his shoulder while walking by, something he never does with Kevin or Sam or Charlie. 

He goes to Sam first. Sam is in the library as usual, researching with Kevin, and Castiel asks to speak to him privately. 

“I was about to take a break anyway,” Kevin says, and scoots out of the room like he’s escaping whatever conversation Sam and Castiel are about to have. 

“Sam,” Castiel starts, then pauses, considering his words. Eventually he decides to be blunt about it. “I have erections,” he says, “and I don’t know how to make them stop.” 

Sam chokes on nothing. “Wow, dude,” he says. “Wow. Not what I expected.” 

“But you can help?” 

“Uh,” Sam says, “look, Cas, you’re one of my best friends, but I don’t feel _that_ way about you--” 

Exasperated, Castiel says, “I didn’t mean literally.” 

“What did you mean, exactly?” 

Sam is clearly uncomfortable with the conversation, but Castiel forges on. “How do I become desirable?” 

“It’s… you just are, to the right person. You can’t pretend to be something you’re not. Dude, it might be better to talk to Dean about this.” 

“Why?” Castiel does not say: _I can’t because I want Dean to desire me._

“He knows more about picking up chicks than I do,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. 

“I don’t think I want a ‘chick.’” 

Sam’s eyes bug out a little. It would be comical in any other situation. “You’re… gay?” 

“Gender is ultimately meaningless outside of the social construct that created it.” 

“Wow, Cas.” 

“I thought you knew this.” 

“Yeah, it’s just… you know. We all live inside that social construct. Sometimes we have to abide by its rules.” 

“These are not rules I want to follow.” 

“Ok, so you like men and women. Anyone specific?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says. 

“It’s not like we get out a lot,” Sam says, looking at Castiel with interest. “I know you and Charlie are close, but she only likes women.” 

It seems like Sam isn’t saying something, but Castiel is lost in this conversation, a raft in the middle of an expansive ocean. In a moment of human recklessness, Castiel says, “I desire Dean.” 

Sam does that choking-on-air thing again, then laughs, loud and joyful. Castiel shrinks underneath it, sure he is being laughed at. “Dude,” Sam says, “dude.” 

“Is that wrong?” 

“Like I said, I think you should be having this conversation with him.” Sam peers at Castiel through a mess of hair. “I wasn’t laughing _at_ you. Just… Dean has never admitted that he’s into guys, but I’m not stupid. He’s never admitted he’s into you, either, but I’m not stupid.” 

“You went to law school. Dean insists you are highly intelligent. That’s why I come to you.” 

“He’s into you,” Sam says. “But don’t -- don’t just ask about erections right off the bat. You’ll totally freak him out.” 

Castiel nods gravely. “What should I ask about?” 

“I don’t know, man. Go a little sneaky with it.” 

“Sneaky,” Castiel repeats. 

“Yeah. Use tact.” 

Castiel knows that he has no tact; it’s something so human he has been trying to learn but has not yet succeeded at. He vows, with even more conviction, to find the right poem. 

The whole of the poem he chooses is not perfect, but he highlights the parts he likes best before sliding the pages under Dean’s door. He ripped the page out of the book; it seems fitting, somehow, like his heart ripped out of his chest. 

Humans are just so dramatic about their feelings. 

_You know what happens when we touch!/You laugh like the sun coming up laughs/at a star that disappears into it._

The next day, the same page slips under his door, with more highlights from the poems that share space with “Granite and Wineglass”: _Love has taken away my practices/and filled me with poetry.//I tried to keep quietly repeating,/No strength but yours,/but I couldn’t…. A mountain keeps an echo deep inside itself./That’s how I hold your voice._

Castiel grips the page tight in shaking hands. Later that day, he uses Sam’s computer (“No clicking on porn!” Sam hollers) to order more poetry books. If Dean won’t -- can’t -- talk to him about this thing between them directly, he’s happy to keep speaking in poetry. 

 

The next poem he selects is less tactful. It goes: _i only want to/be there to kiss you/as you want to be kissed/when you need to be kissed/where i want to kiss you/cause it’s my house/and i plan to live in it._

This time, Dean shows up in person, knocking gently at the molding around Castiel’s door. 

“Yes?” Castiel says, looking up from his newest book. 

“I don’t think you meant to give me this one,” Dean says, holding the book in his hands. _Love Poems,_ it’s called. 

“Sam thinks I should use tact when discussing this with you,” Castiel says, “but discretion has never been my strong suit.” 

“Discussing what? Your newfound poetry obsession?” 

Castiel looks down at the book he is reading. It’s about a girl pretending to be a boy falling in love with the king of thieves. There are swords and heroes. Dean has always been royalty to Castiel. “No,” Castiel says, carefully. “My interest in you.” He holds up the book. “You’re my George.” 

“I haven’t read that one,” Dean says, going pale. 

“I used to have a female vessel, you know,” Castiel says. “If that would make you more comfortable.” 

“I can’t -- can’t imagine you as a woman,” Dean says. 

“She was far more beautiful than this vessel.” 

Dean looks at him, eyes sweeping down Castiel’s body. “Nah,” he says, “you look pretty good now.” 

“Would you desire me if I was a woman?” 

Dean’s mouth opens and shuts. Castiel thinks he looks like a fish but knows enough not to say so. “Cas, this isn’t -- I don’t know what -- Jesus, what are you talking about?” 

“Lust. Love.” He thinks for a moment. “And erections.” 

“Erections,” Dean repeats. He sounds like he’s coming from another world, his voice squeaking through a different dimension. 

“I have them now. Now that I’ve fallen. Sam said I shouldn’t bring it up to you, but…” 

“Discretion has never been your strong suit.” 

Castiel nods. 

“Wait. You talked to Sam about erections?” 

Castiel tilts his head to the side. “Yes. He said you would freak out.” 

“I’m not freaking out.” 

“You’re very pale.” 

Dean swallows. “You don’t know -- you have no idea -- what will happen if we kiss.” 

“I kissed April,” Castiel says. “I know what it entails.” 

“You and me,” Dean says, gesturing between them, “are different.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says. “You are the Righteous Man. _My_ righteous man.” 

“I’m not into dudes, man. I’m sorry.” Dean really does sound sorry, but he also sounds like a liar. 

“You forget that I’ve seen inside your mind.” 

Dean jerks back. “Fuck, you can’t do that.” 

“You’re correct. I do not have that ability anymore. But before -- I’ve seen inside you. I know you. I raised you from Carcosa and I put you back together. You can’t hide things from me, Dean. Surely you know that by now.” 

“So you -- you want me to help you with erections. Because Sam wouldn’t.” 

Castiel knows Dean is deflecting from the real conversation. _Love Poems,_ the book is called, not _Erection Poems._ But Castiel will take what he can get, so he nods. 

Dean licks his lips. “I can -- I can help you,” he says at last. “I mean, I’m not going to touch you. That’s a little beyond the call of duty. But we’re friends, and, uh, what else are friends for?” 

“Now?” 

“I need a couple beers before I can get involved in that,” Dean says. 

“Bring me one, too.” 

 

This is how Dean and Castiel end up in Castiel’s room, drinking beer and laughing awkwardly together. Castiel can tell that Dean is only thinking about what he might be teaching Castiel soon, and he can also tell that Dean is terrified. Horrified. Ready to flee. 

“So I tell Sam, ‘What was I supposed to do with that cat?!’” Dean is saying. “Of course, the cat was dead at the time.” 

Castiel laughs heartily. He’s learning to do this, to react correctly to jokes, to tip his head back and laugh at the sky the way Dean does. Castiel’s eyes crinkle and he knows this is where the wrinkles came from: Jimmy must have smiled a lot. 

Dean finishes his second beer. He tosses the bottle towards the trash can in the corner and the bottle lands neatly in the bag. “Score!” he says. “Three points.” 

Castiel has no idea what this means but doesn’t ask. Something else he’ll research later instead of sounding ignorant now. “You’ve had a couple beers,” he says instead. 

Dean bites his lip, looking everywhere but at Castiel. “Ok,” he says. He sounds the same way he does when they are about to get themselves into an impossible war. “Take off your clothes.” 

Castiel sets his beer to the side hurriedly, nearly spilling it all over his books in the process. There’s a tremor in his hands as he strips off his t-shirt, his socks, his jeans, his boxers. He can feel Dean’s eyes inspecting him but he keeps his gaze lowered, fighting the urge to cover up his penis with his hands. This self-consciousness is new. 

“So, uh,” Dean says. “You probably want to lay down…” 

Castiel does. He glances up at Dean and is surprised to see pupils wide and dark. Dean’s tongue swipes over his own lips. Castiel remembers this gesture -- so many times Dean has done it in his presence, and it now seems to hold a weight it didn’t before. A type of wanting. 

“Where do you like to be touched?” Dean says. “Like, not your dick, but the rest of you.” 

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. 

“I guess this is as good a time as any to find out.” Dean gestures at himself, blushing crimson. “I really like having my nipples touched, you know? Maybe you would like that.” 

Castiel runs a hand up his belly and to his left nipple, brushing a thumb across it. 

“Maybe pinch it,” Dean says, “not too hard.” 

Castiel does, and he gasps. It sends a tiny electric buzz downwards towards his groin. It’s good. “I like that,” he says. 

“Thought you would,” Dean says. He’s watching Castiel’s hand with an eagle eye, like he can see inside Castiel if he looks hard enough. “Do, uh, it with the other one. Maybe both at the same time.” 

Castiel does, and his dick twitches. It’s starting to fill, though he thinks it might be more Dean’s eyes on him than his own touches. 

“Don’t tell me,” Dean says, “but you should think about… whatever you think about. Whatever gives you, um, erections.” 

Castiel closes his eyes and thinks of Dean. He thinks about Dean falling asleep against his shoulder. He thinks about Dean laughing at his attempts at jokes, just to make him feel like part of humanity. He thinks about Dean’s hands, rough from wielding guns and machetes, and what it might feel like to have them on his body. 

Suddenly, he’s hard. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, just barely a breath of a word. 

Without prompting, Castiel slides his dominant hand down his stomach, pausing to feel the texture of the hairs just below his belly button. From Above, he never knew how many textures the human body could feel. Texture is an overwhelming part of being human, he thinks, and then his thoughts return to Dean. 

For the briefest moment, Castiel opens his eyes to take in Dean’s visage. He is so beautiful, and he has no idea. Dean is staring at Castiel’s dick, though, and doesn’t notice Castiel looking. 

“Now, um, touch your cock.” 

_Cock_ , Castiel thinks. This word, more than others, makes something jump inside him. It sounds dirty in Dean’s mouth, but a good kind of dirty Castiel has never experienced before. 

His hand keeps moving downward until it bumps against the head of his cock, swollen larger than the shaft, colored dark. He gasps again. 

“Wrap your hand around it,” Dean says, “like… you know.” Dean makes a hand-shape like a C and moves his hand back and forth. 

If he knew, he wouldn’t be asking for Dean’s help, but Castiel keeps the quip to himself and instead does as Dean showed him: his hand circling around the head of his dick, squeezing gently. It’s like touching his nipples, except so much more intense that he thinks his breath will be forever trapped in his body. Pleasure whites out his brain. 

“You can -- you should -- move your hand. Up and down.” 

Castiel is only holding himself loosely, and it’s too dry to slide right, but it still feels good. Really good. Like nothing else he’s felt since landing on Earth. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. Castiel sees him lick his lips again. “You -- you need some lube or something.” 

“I don’t have any,” Castiel says. He doesn’t stop touching. He could get addicted to this. 

“Oh, well.” Dean blushes but says, “Give me your hand.” 

With regret, Castiel holds his hand out to Dean. Dean takes it, bites his lip in a quick moment of indecision, then pulls Castiel’s wrist until he can slide the flat of his tongue up Castiel’s palm. Castiel stares, transfixed. Dean’s tongue on his fingers doesn’t feel particularly pleasurable, but something about the sight of Dean, eyes closed, laving his tongue over Castiel’s hand, makes Castiel’s dick twitch and his thoughts falter. 

After another long lick, Dean spits into Castiel’s palm. “There,” he says, “that’ll be better.” He is blushing deeper, a lovely pink spreading down his neck. Castiel likes this look on him. “Touch yourself again.” 

Castiel wraps his hand around his cock, tighter this time. His eyes close automatically, sparks behind the lids. 

“You can -- twist your wrist -- like this.”

Castiel opens his eyes to Dean making another gesture. Castiel copies it the best he can, and yes, that’s very nice. Touching the head of his cock is especially wonderful, and the twisting motion makes it even better. 

“Do you like that?” 

“Yes,” Castiel breathes. It’s hard to think of answers to questions while he’s doing this. 

“Now you just -- I can leave you alone -- ‘cause you just kind of do that, maybe you’ll like it rougher or faster, but you’ve got the idea. So you, like, do that until it feels really really good, and then you’ll come, and it’ll be a mess, but it’s worth it.” 

Dean is rushing through his words. He’s so nervous and Castiel doesn’t know why. This isn’t a thing friends normally do, but Castiel knows there is lust in Dean’s eyes, if only because he’s seen it in his own. And when Castiel’s eyes rove downward, Dean’s dick is hard against the front of his jeans. 

Castiel says, “Don’t go.” 

Dean licks his lips. “Ok, Cas. Ok.” 

“Show me how you do it,” Castiel says. He looks pointedly at Dean’s crotch again. Dean catches the message and turns red. 

“That’s weird, Cas,” he says. 

“So?” 

“This whole thing is weird,” Dean says, sounding like he’s talking to himself, talking himself through something. “So, I mean, I guess…” Hesitantly, he unbuttons the top button of his jeans. There are three more, and Castiel pauses the movement of his hand while Dean undoes each of them so slowly. It’s not meant to be a tease but Castiel’s mouth is dry all the same. 

Dean’s dick springs out of his jeans. He isn’t wearing boxers; just bare underneath. Castiel doesn’t have a lot of experience, but he thinks the arc of Dean’s cock is lovely. “Beautiful,” he finds himself saying. 

“What?” Dean says. His hand is gripping the base of his cock tightly. 

“You,” Castiel says. “You’re beautiful.” 

Dean gives a short laugh without any humor behind it. “Nah,” he says. “Don’t get all mushy on me.” 

“Ok,” Castiel says. 

“You stopped touching yourself,” Dean says. “Don’t stop.” 

Castiel picks it up again, taking a moment to find his rhythm, and then Dean is touching himself in tandem. “God,” Dean says around a moan. 

“Don’t talk about him right now,” Castiel says. 

“Oh, right,” Dean says. His eyes are locked on Castiel’s. Castiel doesn’t have to close his eyes, either, because his fantasy is in front of him: Dean sprawled out on his bed, perfect dick in his hand, swallowing down groans. 

“What do you think about?” Castiel asks, trying to match his touch to the rougher one Dean gives himself. “When you’re doing this?” 

“Oh, you know,” Dean says, “going down on -- um -- going down on girls, you know…” He closes his eyes for the briefest moment, as if trying to imagine it, but then they open again and he is back to staring at the movement of Castiel’s hand. Castiel learns that if he focuses the touch on the head of his dick, he finds the most pleasure, so he focuses the twisting of his hand there, moaning every now and then without shame. 

“You prefer to cunnilingus over fellatio?” 

“Where did you learn to talk so filthy?” Dean says, a little sarcastic but mostly sounding fond. “I like both.” 

Castiel nods. “I’d like to try that sometime.” 

“Which?” 

“Fellatio. Giving.” 

Dean gasps and his eyelashes flutter. “Fuck, Cas,” he says. 

“I’d like to try that, too.” 

“Fuck,” Dean repeats. “I’m -- are you close, Cas?” 

“I don’t know.” There’s something coiled tight in his belly, a tingling in his hands, but he isn’t sure what it means. April was nothing like this. 

“I’m close,” Dean whispers. 

Castiel meets his eyes. There’s something intense under the flecks and specks of green and gold. Something focused. Something like the way he looks going into battle. 

Suddenly, Castiel experiences it: orgasm rips through him without warning. His cock hardens even further, and then the tip overflows with come, wetting his fingers. “Oh,” he says, moaning, his pulse pounding in his ears. 

Dean’s orgasm seems to surprise him, too, and he comes hard, some of it hitting the collar of his t-shirt and dripping downwards. “Cas, Cas, Cas,” he says, continuing to jerk his wrist until his dick is spent. Castiel’s dick is softening already. Dean keeps holding his, gripping tight, and his head falls back to thump against the wall. 

Castiel is flooded with endorphins and oxytocin and a warmth he names _Dean_. 

“Wow,” Dean says. He looks down at himself. “Shit, I made a mess.” 

“Here,” Castiel says. There’s a towel he threw on the floor after his shower earlier, and he hands it to Dean. Dean ineffectively wipes at the come on his shirt, but ends up just taking it off. Castiel stares, unabashed, at the miles of golden skin now revealed. Dean’s nipples are pink and perked; his belly is soft and kissable; the muscles in his arms flex as he cleans the come off his dick. 

Castiel expects Dean to toss the towel to him next, but instead Dean leans over and, so carefully, cleans off Castiel himself. He uses the towel gently on Castiel’s softened penis, his stomach, his hand smeared with pleasure. Dean doesn’t actually touch Castiel’s skin, but the gesture is charged all the same. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says. 

“You’re welcome.” Dean swallows and doesn’t meet Castiel’s eyes. 

Castiel is trying to figure out what to say, but he’s saved by the bell, so to speak: a knock on his door, Sam calling out, “Hey, Cas, need your help with a translation.” 

Dean turns gray like a ghost. “Shit,” he mutters. “Oh, fuck. Can I -- I’m going to borrow a shirt --” He scrambles to Castiel’s dresser and pulls one out. It’s backwards at first and Castiel has to point it out before Dean notices. 

“I’m indisposed,” Castiel says loudly. “I’ll be there in a bit.” 

“Ooooooh-kay,” Sam says. He sounds far too pleased for someone who needs translation assistance.

Castiel takes Dean’s cue and redresses. Dean pointedly does not watch, instead fiddling with the newer books on Castiel’s table. “You really are maxing out some cards on poetry, huh?” 

“I find it to be helpful in identifying my emotions,” Castiel says. 

“I guess so,” Dean says. 

There’s another knock on the door. 

“It’s kind of urgent,” Kevin says through the thick wood. 

“Just give me a minute!” Castiel says. Kevin’s feet thump down the hall. 

“They’ll send Charlie next,” Dean says. 

“I suppose we should make an appearance in the library.” 

“S’pose so,” Dean says. 

They look at each other for a long moment. They’ve done this often during their relationship: just stare, trying to find something in each other that they don’t hold within themselves. It never feels quite as intense as it does now. 

“Let’s go,” Dean says. It’s almost a whisper. 

“We should,” Castiel says. 

But it’s another long moment before they can tear themselves away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reallyeleglantsharkfish](http://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com) on tumblr
> 
> *I named these two fics based on something genius that I can’t for the life of me remember now. It was probably a bible verse or a Lucero song or maybe a poem. Whatever; it’s too late to change the titles now. 
> 
> *Rumi poetry quotes from “Each Note,” “Granite and Wineglass,” and “Buoyancy” 
> 
> *The kissing poem is “My House” by Nicki Giovanni
> 
> *Castiel is reading Tamora Pierce’s Song of the Lioness series (apparently my headcanon includes Castiel loving YA literature)
> 
> *Gardinet quote from “Wet Dream” 
> 
> *Morning in the Burned House, Margaret Atwood; Breaking Poems, Suheir Hammad; Milk & Honey, Rupi Kaur
> 
> *”Hold Me Close” by Lucero (my favorite band go listen right now) 
> 
> *”Flockprinter” by Buddy Wakefield


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Castiel is reading_ Morning in the Burned House _. He is reading_ Breaking Poems _. He is reading_ Milk & Honey _. He sees himself there, heartbroken. Atwood writes:_ Messy love is better than none,/I guess. I’m no authority/on sane living. _This human love -- not just an angelic love of humanity -- has made Castiel insane._

The next poem slid under Castiel’s door is scrawled in Dean’s hand. Twelve lines. Written by Carlos Omar Gardinet. The important part says, _Calm/like the eye of a hurricane/you lay silent and wait/to destroy my life._

It’s the first time Castiel has ever cried. 

 

Sam and Kevin and Charlie know. They might not know exactly what transpired between Castiel and Dean, but they know that something has, and they all dance around it like prima ballerinas, giving each other secret smirks. 

Castiel can’t taste food anymore. He doesn’t care for it. Dean has named him a destroyer of worlds, and it’s a pain sharper than an angel blade. Dean isn’t eating, either, and he isn’t looking Castiel in the eye, and his laughter with the others seems more fake than it has ever been.

Castiel is reading _Morning in the Burned House._ He is reading _Breaking Poems._ He is reading _Milk & Honey._ He sees himself there, heartbroken. Atwood writes: _Messy love is better than none,/I guess. I’m no authority/on sane living._ This human love -- not just an angelic love of humanity -- has made Castiel insane. 

It’s easiest to corner Dean while he’s cooking, so Castiel does just that. Dean is chopping onions, which make Castiel’s eyes burn and water, but maybe that’s for the best. He is feeling a little emotional. 

“Dean,” he says.

Dean startles like a skittish horse, slicing his finger open with the knife. “Shit,” he says. 

He rushes to the sink while Castiel rushes to him. Castiel holds his wrist and shoves his hand under the cool water. Blood practically gushes. “I’m sorry,” Castiel says, over and over. 

“No, it’s -- it’s my fault, and it’s not a big deal, just a little cut.” 

“A lot of blood,” Castiel says. 

“Yeah, but you know finger injuries bleed like a bitch. It’ll be fine.” As if to demonstrate, he pulls it out of the water only for the blood to run down his hand. “Well, fuck.” 

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Castiel says and jogs out of the kitchen even as Dean is protesting. 

Dean is frowning at his hand under the water when Castiel returns, the miniature first aid kit from the library under his arm. It’s not the full one they carry with them on hunts, but it has plenty of gauze and medical tape inside. Castiel pulls out squares of gauze and wraps them around Dean’s finger. They redden immediately but Castiel puts the pressure on and a minute later the blood is just a leak. So carefully, Castiel applies Neosporin, wraps the finger in fresh gauze, and tapes it up. 

“A little bit extreme, don’t you think?” Dean says, shaking his mummified finger at Castiel. 

“No,” Castiel says. 

Dean cracks a smile. “Now you have to finish cutting those onions.” 

Despite the burning eyes, Castiel doesn’t mind. He keeps a careful eye on the knife and his fingers and accomplishes the task without injury. Dean watches like a hawk. Castiel thinks it’s just so Dean doesn’t have to meet his eyes. 

“Dude, you’re crying,” Dean says. 

“Onion tears,” Castiel says. He smiles to show it’s nothing. 

His heart stammers when Dean reaches out to wipe the tears off his face with a touch far too gentle for someone of his strength. “Now put those onions in that pan, with the -- yeah. Medium heat.” 

Castiel follows directions until all the preparatory work for dinner is complete. Then he stands across from Dean (“Personal space!” Dean told him once, but it doesn’t seem to apply anymore) and says, chin held high, “I destroyed your life?” 

“What?” Dean says. His eyes are so green and they eat Castiel up inside. 

“The poem. _You lay silent and wait to destroy my life._ ” 

Dean blinks. “That’s not -- that’s not the part --” He licks his lips and tries again. “That wasn’t the takeaway. Wasn’t supposed to be, anyway.” 

“Then what is the ‘takeaway,’ Dean?” 

“Is this why you’ve been ignoring me? Because you thought…?” 

“You helped me, and then.” Castiel wipes a stray tear away from his face. “You called me a destroyer.” 

“No, Cas,” Dean says. He reaches forward, and his hand wavers like he isn’t sure where to put it. Finally it just lands awkwardly on Castiel’s shoulder, but Dean doesn’t pull it away immediately like he usually does. It rests there, a burning weight through Castiel’s thin shirt. “Yeah, it says that. But I didn’t mean it so literal.” 

“Then what did you mean? Tell me.” 

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” 

Castiel’s breath catches and for a moment, vertigo takes over.

“That -- thing -- we did the other day -- I can’t stop thinking about that.” 

Castiel grabs the edge of the counter to hold himself upright. “And what are you thinking?” 

Dean looks away. “And I’m thinking I want to do it again. With you. Maybe… maybe I could touch you. You’ve never had a real lover.” 

“April--” 

“Just because you fucked her doesn’t mean you know what it’s like to -- to --” Dean rubs his hands over his face. “Ow, fuck,” he says, pulling his injured finger away and inspecting the bandage for fresh blood. 

“What, Dean? Just say it.” 

“To be touched by someone who cares about you.” 

Castiel’s fingers are white-knuckled. “And you are that person?” 

“God, Cas, you know I care about you.” 

“Yes. We’re family. But you’ve never wanted to touch me before.” 

So quiet, Castiel isn’t sure he hears it at all: “I’ve always wanted to touch you.” 

“Show me, then. What it’s like.” 

Dean swallows. “I’ll meet you in your room. After they go to bed.” He jerks away, pointing with his wrapped finger. “Shit, the sauce is burning.” 

Dean sure knows how to abruptly end a conversation about feelings. 

 

It’s after midnight before Dean knocks on his door. Castiel meets him there and opens it wide for Dean to enter. Dean looks guilty, glancing around the hallway like someone might be watching, before he steps inside. 

Castiel is wearing a pair of comfortable flannel pants that show a little too much ankle and a t-shirt most likely stolen from Dean. Dean is still in his flannel upperwear and jeans, but his feet are bare. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says. 

“Hello, Cas,” Dean says back. 

Castiel has no idea what to say and apparently Dean doesn’t, either, because they stare at each other a beat too long. 

“Let’s, uh,” Dean says. His eyes slide down Castiel’s body. “Listen, I’ve never really been with a guy. Not like this.” 

“Not like this,” Castiel agrees. 

“Only for business,” Dean says. This is a secret so deep he’s never talked about it at all, Castiel knows. 

“I know,” Castiel says. He reaches out and touches Dean’s uninjured hand, just a brush of fingertips. “I watched you for a long time before Hell.” 

Dean flinches but not away from the touch. In fact, he seems to melt from it, staring at their joined hands in something like wonder. “Fuck, Cas,” he says, breathless. 

“What do we do now?” Castiel asks. 

“We -- I kiss you,” Dean says. He laces his fingers through Castiel’s, holding tight, and steps closer. Castiel watches with wide eyes, trying to drink everything in at once: the smell of Sam’s shampoo Dean pretends he doesn’t use, the unbearably vulnerable look in his eyes, the feel of their hands together. 

Dean swallows. He licks his lips. He takes another step closer, so their chests are nearly touching. Castiel’s heartbeat thunders at each of his pulse points. If Dean can hear it, he doesn’t react. Instead, he leans forward and presses his lips to Castiel’s. 

Dean’s lips are wet against Castiel’s chapped ones. It’s just a gentle press of lips, Castiel’s eyes fluttering closed, and then Dean reaches his free hand up -- injured finger now just in a bandaid -- and slides his fingers into Castiel’s hair just behind his ear. Dean pulls away but stays close enough to press their foreheads together. “How -- how was that?” His voice cracks. 

“Good,” Castiel whispers. 

“Can I do it again?” 

“Please.” 

Dean is so gentle, and it surprises Castiel. This isn’t how he kisses women, though women have softer mouths and softer skin and lack the scrape of a midnight shadow along their jaws. Again, Dean pulls away first. “Lay down,” he says. 

Castiel backs up towards the bed, pulling Dean along with him via their linked hand. Dean follows him so willingly, even into the bed, laying himself alongside Castiel. They’ve shared a bed before in cheap motels when they can’t afford an extra room after Sam and Dean played rock-paper-scissors to figure out who got stuck with the angel, but never this close. Never so he can see the individual shades of green dancing in Dean’s eyes. 

Dean inhales shakily. Castiel smiles. Dean puts his hand back in Castiel’s hair and tugs until Castiel meets his mouth again, and they kiss over and over, lips barely parted. Castiel is drowning in it. 

“I’m going to talk you through this, ok, Cas?” 

“Ok,” Castiel says. Castiel knows Dean’s words will be as much for himself as they are for Castiel. 

“When we kiss, we can -- you can put your tongue in my mouth.” 

Even though Dean is still so gentle and slow, the next kiss, where their tongues meet in the middle and then Dean welcomes Castiel’s into his mouth, is much more sexually charged. Dean squeezes Castiel’s hand. Their arms are trapped between them but Castiel won’t be the first one to let go. 

“Did you like that?” Dean says. 

“Yes, thank you. Did you?” 

Dean huffs out something like a laugh. “Yeah, Cas, yeah, I liked it.” 

“I would like any touch you gave me.”

Dean looks surprised, and Castiel wonders if his affections have really been so opaque, or if Dean just thinks so little of himself to be oblivious. 

“What next?” Castiel asks. 

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Dean says, “but would you mind if we just… kissed a little more?” 

“Not at all,” Castiel says. He wouldn’t mind if they kissed all night and into next week. 

Dean kisses him again, thumb stroking along Castiel’s cheekbone, and this time when their tongues touch, Dean makes a little noise in the back of his throat. It thrills its way down Castiel’s spine, and Castiel makes a little noise back. Castiel lifts his hand, needing to touch but not sure where or how. He ends up placing it on Dean’s hip. There he can feel the slightest bit of warm, smooth skin where Dean’s shirt is riding up. 

“So good,” Dean murmurs. He kisses the closed corner of Castiel’s mouth, and he runs his lips along Castiel’s jaw before placing a soft kiss just underneath his ear, and he nuzzles against Castiel’s neck, pausing to just breathe for a moment. Castiel is trying to catch his breath, too, but every touch causes him to gasp a little. 

“Now,” Dean says, half-talking to himself, “you can take your shirt off.” 

They have to stop holding hands for Castiel to struggle out of his top. Dean sits up next to him and tugs him in for another kiss. 

Castiel lays back down but Dean stays above him. Slowly, his eyes rove over Castiel’s skin like he’s never seen him shirtless before, like he’s trying to memorize every mark and scar. “God,” Dean says. Even his whisper sounds too loud in a room full of breath and heartbeat. 

Dean puts a hand on the hard planes of Castiel’s stomach and then slides it upwards until his thumb is running ever so lightly up and down Castiel’s throat. Slowly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to or not, Dean leans down and kisses along Castiel’s collarbone, one and then the other. “Is this ok?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Please don’t stop.” 

He can feel Dean smile against his shoulder. “Don’t want to, angel.” 

Next Dean kisses down Castiel’s chest, all the way to his belly button, and then licks his way back upwards. Castiel hums in appreciation and tries to keep still. His hands are shaking. At Castiel’s neck again, Dean scrapes his teeth along the tendon running from shoulder to jaw. “Oh,” Castiel says. 

“You like that?” Dean says against Castiel’s skin. It’s a rhetorical question. 

“Kiss me again,” Castiel says, and Dean hurries to comply. Dean’s hand is back on his chest, a finger drawing circles around one of Castiel’s nipples. Castiel can’t help but squirm when Dean gives the lightest pinch. 

“Is that --” 

“Stop asking,” Castiel says. “I won’t break.” 

Something about the words makes Dean kiss him again, harder this time, and Dean pinches a nipple with intent. Castiel outright moans and is immediately self-conscious, but Dean clenches his fingers against Castiel’s skin and licks into Castiel’s mouth and Castiel forgets how to be conscious at all. He exists only as nerve endings lighting up at the touch of Dean’s hand and mouth. 

“Can I touch you?” Castiel asks. 

Dean parrots his words back at him: “I won’t break, Cas.” 

But Castiel knows he might. 

Carefully, looking downwards to watch, Castiel slides both hands under Dean’s shirts. One hand is on Dean’s belly, wrist at an awkward angle, and the other slides around to feel the muscles lining either side of Dean’s spine. His skin is hot and smooth and has less hair than Castiel’s. 

When he looks up, Dean’s eyes are on his face. Castiel still doesn’t know how to be desirable, but he knows now that Dean desires him anyway. 

“Shouldn’t you take off your clothes, too?” Castiel says. 

“I just want to take care of you,” Dean says, “we don’t have to --” 

“I want to see you,” Cas interrupts. 

Dean pulls away and Castiel misses the warmth of his hands immediately, but it’s worth it to watch Dean shrug out of his flannel and then pull off his t-shirt. Like Castiel’s, Dean’s body is all muscle, but they don’t look anything alike. Where Castiel is lithe, Dean is thick. Dean has the body of a working man, someone who works with his hands, and Castiel is only firm from the endless meditation-running. 

“Like what you see?” Dean says. He smirks a little, but that open look doesn’t leave his eyes. 

“Yes,” Castiel says sincerely. Under Castiel’s eyes, Dean blushes. 

To hide it, Dean says, “Take off the rest of your clothes.”

Castiel arches his hips to slide off his pants. Underneath he is mostly hard and his dick swells more with the way Dean looks at him, like he’s something treasured. 

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” Dean says, “but I want -- can I suck you?” 

“Fellatio,” Castiel says. He thinks it will make Dean laugh and he’s right. 

“We’ll work on the dirty talk later. Can I…?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says. 

The idea, just the thought, has his dick growing hard and insistent against his belly. “God,” Dean says, his eyes moving over Castiel’s entire body, up and then down. 

Dean reaches out and runs just the pads of his fingers up the length of Castiel’s cock. Castiel inhales deeply, surprised how different it feels when Dean does it versus his own hand. Hands still impossibly gentle, Dean pulls Castiel’s legs open and then situates himself between them. 

“I’m going to -- fuck, Cas -- I’m going to suck your cock now, ok?” 

Castiel nods, watching with rapt attention as Dean leans down and gives a little kitten lick to the underside, that ridge that Castiel learned feels so good to touch. Castiel is already breathing harder and clenching his hands in the sheets. Waiting. 

Dean wraps his hand around the base of Castiel, pulling him to a harsher angle, and slowly slides his mouth just over the first few inches. 

Castiel is… _shocked_ is not the right word, maybe _ecstatic_ is more like it, even though Castiel always thought ecstasy was inexorably tied with worship. Then again, he might as well worship Dean. His Righteous Man, currently bowed at his feet. 

Impossibly, Castiel gets harder. His inhales are coming fast and sharp, especially when Dean starts to move his lips up and down, taking a little more of Castiel each time, tongue pressed tight to the underside of his dick. “Dean,” Castiel starts, but can’t think of the end to this sentence. 

“Mm,” Dean says, and it vibrates to Castiel’s core. 

Dean takes all of him then but chokes and comes back up immediately. “Fuck, sorry,” Dean mutters. Castiel has no idea what he’s apologizing for and says as much. 

Dean smiles at that, then takes Castiel’s cock back in his mouth again, going down until Castiel can feel himself hitting the back of Dean’s throat but not popping all the way in. Instead, Dean wraps his hand around what his mouth can’t reach, stroking spit-slick skin. 

“Oh,” Castiel gasps. He’s overwhelmed, and his hands clench in the bedding along with Dean’s rhythm, and it’s not long before he feels that winged snake deep in his belly. He thinks he’s supposed to warn Dean, but before he can get the words out, he’s coming. 

Dean doesn’t pull away. He swallows, then again, and Castiel has never seen anything more beautiful than Dean’s mouth around his cock with come sliding out from beneath his lips. After a seemingly endless orgasm, Dean sits on his heels. There’s come on his hand and he licks a stray drop from his bottom lip. 

“Oh,” Castiel says again, transfixed. 

“Good?” Dean asks. 

“Amazing,” Castiel says. 

Dean grins. He grabs one of their shirts from the floor and wipes his hand, then takes a gulp of water from the cup next to Castiel’s bed. 

“Kiss me,” Castiel says. 

Dean leans over him and kisses him with lots of tongue. Castiel can taste himself, bitter but not unpleasant, and something about that makes him moan against Dean’s mouth. Dean smiles down at him. “You’re incredible.” 

Castiel smiles back and says, “So are you.” He expects Dean to recoil, to shove off the praise like he does any other kind words, but for once, he lets it sit in the air without arguing. “Can I do that to you?” Castiel asks. “Suck you?” 

“I don’t know, Cas,” Dean says. “Maybe another time.” 

“Another time,” Castiel repeats. “Will there be another time?” 

Dean’s eyebrows furrow a little, creating a vertical line in his forehead. “If you want?” he says, sounding unsure. 

“I want very much,” Castiel says. 

Dean smiles like the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reallyeleglantsharkfish](http://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com) on tumblr
> 
> *I named these two fics based on something genius that I can’t for the life of me remember now. It was probably a bible verse or a Lucero song or maybe a poem. Whatever; it’s too late to change the titles now. 
> 
> *Rumi poetry quotes from “Each Note,” “Granite and Wineglass,” and “Buoyancy” 
> 
> *The kissing poem is “My House” by Nicki Giovanni
> 
> *Castiel is reading Tamora Pierce’s Song of the Lioness series (apparently my headcanon includes Castiel loving YA literature)
> 
> *Gardinet quote from “Wet Dream” 
> 
> *Morning in the Burned House, Margaret Atwood; Breaking Poems, Suheir Hammad; Milk & Honey, Rupi Kaur
> 
> *”Hold Me Close” by Lucero (my favorite band go listen right now) 
> 
> *”Flockprinter” by Buddy Wakefield


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You don’t want our friends to know.”_
> 
> _“They’ll make a whole thing about it, and it doesn’t have to be a whole thing, you know? It’s just… us. Like we always were. Except with blowjobs.”_

Breakfast is strange. Charlie, Kevin, and Sam are smirking at each other again, and Dean pointedly ignores each of them to talk with Castiel. As Castiel and Dean are cleaning up the dishes, Charlie sidles up next to them and says, “Sooooo....” 

“Yes, Charlie?” Castiel says. 

“Yes, Charlie?” Dean mimics. 

“You’re acting like a child,” Castiel says. Dean laughs, and it’s the most perfect sound in the universe. 

“No one wants to ask,” Charlie says, “but…” 

“Get to the point, Bradbury.” 

“Are you two, like…?” She makes an obscene gesture accented by wiggling eyebrows. 

Dean drops a plate into the sink, causing soapy water to splash all over. “No,” he says harshly. “The fuck is wrong with you people?” 

Charlie takes a step backwards and holds her hands up in a placating gesture. “Just asking, dude. You two have been weird.” 

“He’s always weird,” Dean says, tilting his head towards Castiel. 

Castiel looks down at his hands. Last night they touched Dean’s bare skin. In the light of day, it suddenly seems like a dream. 

While Dean and Charlie are distracted, Castiel slips out of the kitchen and back to his books. 

 

Dean comes to him again at night. He knocks quietly on the door, then lets himself in. Castiel is in boxers and argyle socks leftover from one of his FBI suit costumes. Dean is in sweatpants and a soft tee. 

“I didn’t invite you in,” Castiel says as Dean sits on the edge of the bed. 

“You want me to go?” 

Castiel dog-ears the page in his book and then sets it on the stack next to his bed. “You’re not ashamed of sex,” he says, “but you’re ashamed of me.” 

“No, Cas, I’m not -- never.” 

“You don’t want our friends to know.” 

“They’ll make a whole thing about it, and it doesn’t have to be a whole thing, you know? It’s just… us. Like we always were. Except with blowjobs.” 

This is true, Castiel reasons. He’s never called his relationship with Sam a profound bond, after all. “You’re forgiven,” he says. 

“You were mad? About this morning?” 

Castiel rolls his eyes. This is a gesture he learned what seems like millennia ago, back when his vessel was female. “Yes.” 

Dean chews on his bottom lip. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just really -- it’s new, and…” He trails off, but what he isn’t saying is that this thing between them is fragile, a bubble that could be burst by outside eyes. 

“I understand.” 

Dean lets out a breath. “And they don’t know. That I like men.” 

“Not even Sam?” 

Dean laughs without humor. “I mean, he’s a big hippie and I’m sure he’d be all _supportive_ and shit, but I just -- I don’t know.” 

“You’ve been hiding so long that you don’t know how not to.” 

Dean looks up at Castiel for the first time during this conversation. “You’re somethin’ else, Cas.” 

“Not anymore,” Castiel says. _Human_ is the only thing still left inside him. 

Dean moves closer and presses his mouth against Castiel’s cheek, the kiss lingering for long moments. When Dean starts to pull away, Castiel tilts his head so he can kiss the Cupid’s bow of Dean’s upper lip. 

“Lay down with me,” Castiel says. Dean complies, both of them shuffling until they are facing each other, nearly cross-eyed. Dean’s hand lifts to trace over the knob of bone on the outside of Castiel’s wrist, and then he slips his hand into Castiel’s and squeezes. Castiel’s little reading light casts shadows around the room. “I used to think my feelings for you were punishment,” Castiel says. 

Dean swallows audibly. “Punishment for what? What -- what feelings?” 

“Punishment for my disobedience.” The other question is harder to answer. “You soul is so bright, Dean. I belonged to you before I knew you.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I guess I’ve been yours since Hell. Whether I liked it or not.” 

“Mostly you’ve hated it,” Castiel says. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Castiel shrugs. Finally, these little pieces of humanness are snapping together and coming without conscious thought. “It’s all right.” 

“I’ve hurt you,” Dean says. Not a question. 

“You’ve uplifted me.” 

“It’s my fault you fell.” 

“Once you told me that you’d rather have me, even if I was cursed. You’ve always been my choice, Dean.” 

Dean searches his eyes like he’s looking for an untruth. Castiel stares back resolutely. The moment stretches into long minutes just looking at each other, just breathing the same air. 

“I should go to bed,” Dean says. 

“Stay with me. If you aren’t ashamed, stay.” 

Dean does. 

 

Castiel is hours into research with Kevin, Sam, and Charlie, when Dean bursts into the library. They all look up at him. 

“I just wanted to tell you all,” Dean says, “Cas and I are doing a -- a thing. Don’t talk to us about it. Ok? Ok.” 

Dean turns to leave the room, but Kevin says, “Dude, what kind of ‘thing’?” 

Charlie makes a _yikes_ face. “A sex thing. Or,” she says, considering, “a love thing.” 

Sam’s eyebrows go all the way up into his hair. It would be comical if Castiel weren’t so shocked himself. “I _said_ ,” Dean says, pointing at them each in turn. “Don’t ask about it.” 

When Dean stalks out of the room, all eyes turn to Castiel. “Uhhh,” Kevin says. 

Sam coughs. It’s fake. “I guess that just happened.” 

“How long has this been going on, Cas?” Charlie asks, nearly hopping up and down in her chair. 

“Dean said --” 

“Dean’s not here,” Kevin provides, astute as always. Still, it’s a good point. 

Castiel looks down, picking at one of his fingernails. He’s started doing that lately. “Not very long,” he says at last. 

“Do you guys realize what this means?” Charlie says. 

“That Dean’s exaggerated heterosexuality has always been a way to cover up latent homosexual tendencies?” Sam provides. 

“Yeah, that,” Charlie says, “but _more_ importantly, the queers now outnumber you breeding motherfuckers.” She cackles with triumphant glee, reaching over to bump Castiel’s fist with her own. 

“Excuse me,” Castiel says, and he leaves the library. 

He finds Dean in the rec room, scrolling through Netflix aimlessly. His eyes brighten when he sees Castiel. “Hey there, Cas.” 

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel sits on the loveseat next to him. Their knees touch. After the intimacy they’ve shared, this tiny bit of connection shouldn’t exhilarate Castiel so much, but it does. “What are you watching?” 

“We could finish _The Walking Dead_.”

“Don’t we see enough monsters?” 

“Point taken. _Parks & Rec_ it is.” 

It’s one of Castiel’s favorite episodes. They sit and laugh and parrot lines back at each other occasionally. At one point, Dean leans over and presses a chaste kiss to Castiel’s mouth. It’s another touch that excites him, makes him think of all the times they have touched before: all-encompassing _I thought you were dead_ hugs; pats on the shoulder; checking and dressing wounds; and now, this new thing between them. 

Mid-way through the next episode, Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s knee and then leans over to kiss him. It’s a fuller kiss, lips parted, and Dean makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Kinda surprised me there, Cas.” 

“Why? Am I not allowed?” 

“‘Course you’re allowed.” 

“Dean,” Castiel says, “would you mind joining me in my room?” 

Dean licks his lips. “Yeah. That sounds good.” 

In his room, Castiel isn’t entirely sure what to do with his hands. Eventually he decides to place them on Dean’s hips, hooking his fingers in belt loops and pulling Dean to him. 

Castiel kisses him, and it’s heated quickly, rougher and deeper than previous kisses. Castiel can’t get enough. “Dean,” Castiel says, “please.” 

“Please what?” 

“I researched how to perform fellatio. It might not be very good the first time, but I’m a quick learner.” 

Dean laughs, his head tipping back in mirth. “Cas, nothing you do could ever be bad. But seriously -- you _researched_?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you watch porn on Sam’s computer? He hates that.” 

“Only a little bit.” 

Dean touches Castiel’s face, a palm cradling his cheek. Castiel leans into the touch, making a noise almost like a purr. Dean smiles again, tender this time, and it hits Castiel like a ton of bricks: _Dean loves me_. Something takes flight inside him, something even better than having wings, and he steps forward to kiss Dean again. 

“I have a favor to ask first,” Dean says. 

“Yes?” 

“Stop saying ‘fellatio.’ It’s just… don’t say it.” 

“Should I ask to suck your cock instead?” 

Dean’s eyes darken. “Yeah.” 

“Take off your clothes.” 

Dean doesn’t make a show of it, but Castiel can’t take his eyes away. Dean’s skin seems to go on forever, smooth and dark and beautiful. Castiel has seen him in all manner of undressed before, but it’s suddenly a different kind of special now that he gets to touch. “You’re…” Castiel starts, but his tongue is tied, staring at Dean. 

“I’m…?” 

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. “Perfect.” 

Dean laughs, self-deprecating, and this is the thing Castiel likes least about him. Dean never misses a chance to think badly about himself. “Ok, Cas,” he says. 

“Lay down,” Castiel says, a mimic of the last time they were like this, except with Castiel spread out under Dean. “And tell me what to do.” 

Dean rushes to climb into the bed. His legs fall open and he strokes his own cock aimlessly, bringing it to full hardness. “I thought you’d been doing research.” 

“I want to hear your voice.” 

“Come here and kiss me.” 

“You can’t talk if we’re kissing,” Castiel grumbles, but he doesn’t mean it; he goes to Dean and takes his mouth with teeth and tongue. Dean moans, grips Castiel’s hips to pull him down, against Dean’s body. 

“Get naked.” 

“You weren’t when we did this before --” 

“Don’t care. I want to see you.” 

Castiel feels himself blushing just the smallest bit. It’s a new thing for him, this flushing pink, and he hates it. Embarrassment is so uncomfortable. 

While Dean watches, Castiel takes off his clothes. He’s a little awkward and probably the opposite of graceful, but Dean doesn’t care, murmuring “yeah, Cas” when the last of Castiel’s clothes join the pile on the floor. 

“Kiss me again,” Dean says. 

Castiel joins him on the bed, climbing between the V of Dean’s legs. This kiss is hot and long and Dean grabs Castiel’s ass, tugging him downwards until their hips meet. Dean’s pre-come slicks the way for their dicks to rub against each other. Castiel reaches down without prompting and wraps his hand around both of them at the same time. Dean groans and joins one of his hands with Castiel’s, finishing a perfect circle of warmth. Slowly, Dean lifts and lowers his hips to create friction, then half-sits up to kiss Castiel again. Castiel doesn’t know what to concentrate on because his nerves are signing all over his body. 

“Cas, you should, kind of --” Dean thrusts upwards again in demonstration. Castiel moves his hips, too, and Dean meets his speed until their cocks are moving in and out of their locked hands together. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. He stutters a little, squeezes harder around them and sees stars. 

“Now,” Dean says, “you can kiss my neck. I like it--” He gestures to the tender skin over his pulse point. 

Forgetting their dicks for the time being, Castiel leans down to nuzzle against the stop Dean indicated, then place a careful, closed-mouth kiss there. 

“Use your tongue a little. And teeth, but not too much.” 

“This is a very unclear instruction,” Castiel says, but he tries it all the same: presses an open-mouthed kiss to the same spot, then bites as gentle as he can. 

Dean whimpers and tilts his head back, baring his throat in a gesture so vulnerable, Castiel is blown away. The trust Dean has in him is always a shock. “More,” Dean says. 

Castiel does it again, then drifts down Dean’s throat, biting and licking until Dean is breathing hard and squirming below him. “What happens next?” Castiel asks, biting at the spot where Dean’s neck turns into his shoulder, feeling the tendon there tense and release under Castiel’s mouth. 

“Um,” Dean says. He is blushing and pointing at one of his nipples. “Lick and bite. Gently!” 

Castiel grins and nibbles again, barely using his teeth, and Dean arches his back to press up into Castiel’s mouth. 

Castiel moves to the other nipple and repeats the ministrations of his mouth. Dean gasps and says, “Yeah, like that, Cas.” He pulls his hand away from their cocks to bury his fingers in Castiel’s hair, pulling gently. Castiel is surprised to find that it sends a shiver down his spine. “Now you just kind of... go downwards.” 

Castiel’s hand leaves their cocks, too, and he brings it to Dean’s chest to pinch at a nipple while his mouth head towards Dean’s stomach. Dean wiggles underneath him again and Castiel smiles against the soft skin of his stomach. 

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, “you’re so good. God, you’re good at this.” 

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says soberly. 

He realizes his mouth is approaching Dean’s cock and pauses just to look at it. Dean’s cock is curved and thick; the foreskin has retreated, leaving the sensitive head exposed. “No teeth,” Dean warns, “but just kind of kiss the tip. Use your tongue. Oh, fuck.” 

Castiel does it again, then lick-kisses down to the base where balls join shaft. He didn’t see this in any of the videos he watched, but Dean seems to like it, so he he does it again back upwards, more using his tongue more than his lips. When he glances up to Dean’s face, Dean is watching, reverent. 

“Put it in your mouth,” Dean says. 

Castiel licks his lips and then tries to take it all at once, like he saw in the videos, but he gags almost immediately and has to pull off. 

“You don’t -- you don’t have to do that. Just a little bit at a time.” 

Castiel takes just the head into his mouth, pursing his lips tight around it. He’s not exactly sure what to do with his tongue, so he just licks at it inside his mouth, and Dean’s gasp seems to indicate this is the right thing to do. 

Dean tastes… not like Castiel expected. It’s the taste of skin, not so different from kissing at Dean’s neck or tonguing a nipple, but darker. The smell of him is thicker here, too, and Castiel breathes in deeply with his nose. He can taste pre-come leaking out of Dean’s cock, and it’s tart and salt-laden and lovely. 

“Fuck, yes,” Dean says. “A little more, if you can, just-- oh, Jesus, like that.” 

Castiel starts to slide his lips up and down Dean’s cock, taking the smallest bit more each time he heads downwards, spurred on by Dean’s praise. 

“Now put your hand-- yeah, on the part you can’t take with your mouth. Try to kind of -- god, yes.” 

Keeping the rhythm with both hand and mouth is difficult, but Castiel thinks he is doing ok at it if he concentrates. Spit slips out of his mouth and down to gather around his hand, slicking the way. He wonders if this is gross, if Dean is grossed out by him, but when he glances up, Dean’s lips are wet and parted and he’s staring like Castiel invented blowjobs all by himself. 

“God, you’re so hot,” Dean says, sounding a little out of his mind. “Christ, the mouth on you. Do you want to make me come? If you keep doing that -- god, yes, yes, Cas --” 

Castiel nods the best he can without taking Dean’s dick out of his mouth. Dean groans, moans, reaches up to put his hands in Castiel’s hair, not pulling or guiding but just stroking, almost too gentle for what they are doing. 

“Don’t stop,” Dean says, though Castiel has no intent to even pause, even as his jaw starts to ache. “You can, uh, you can touch my balls, kind of -- yeah.” 

Castiel pulls gently at Dean’s balls. His other hand falters; it’s tough to keep two hands and his mouth going at the same time, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind. Now he’s kind of chanting Castiel’s name, peppered with curses in between, blaspheming Castiel’s Father’s name. Dean is breathless, chest heaving, and Castiel feels his dick harden impossibly more, and then Dean comes -- crying out, his fingers tangling in Castiel’s hair -- and it gushes down the back of Castiel’s throat. It tastes like pre-come, just more intense, just more of it splashing into Castiel’s mouth and hitting the back of his throat. He tries to swallow like Dean did, but most of it ends up out of his mouth and sliding over his hand. 

“You -- god, Cas,” Dean says. 

When Castiel pulls away, his hand and Dean’s cock are both covered in come, translucent and thick. Some of it drips downwards towards Dean’s balls and, without thinking, Castiel leans down to lick it away. 

“Fuck,” Dean says. “Fuck, that was hot. You have no idea, do you? How gorgeous you are? With your mouth on my cock?” 

Castiel blushes and looks away. “It was… acceptable, then?” 

“Jesus, I can’t remember the last time I came so hard.” 

A sense of pride wells up inside Castiel. It seems a little silly, pride over fellatio, but the idea that he made Dean feel so much pleasure -- it sparks something deep in his gut, something he can’t quite identify. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says. 

“What? Thank you,” Dean replies, grinning up at him. 

Castiel grabs one of their shirts off the floor and wipes his hand clean, then cleans up Dean, too, gently like Dean has done for him. 

“Kiss me,” Dean says. 

Castiel moves back up Dean’s body, presses his own dick into the crease of Dean’s hip, rocks into his skin a moment before pressing their mouths together. Dean moans when his tongue swipes into Castiel’s mouth, tasting himself. Castiel could listen to that sound all day long and never get tired of it. 

Dean reaches down between them, hand hovering near Castiel’s cock, and he pulls out of the kiss to say, “Can I…? Say I can touch you, Cas.” 

“Please,” Castiel says. He gasps and groans when Dean’s hand wraps around his cock, stroking slow and sure. 

“Wanna make you come,” Dean says. He finds Castiel’s mouth again and kisses him while continuing to pump at Castiel’s cock with his hand, gripping tighter at the sensitive head, turning Castiel into a limp mess above him. Castiel can barely hold himself up. “You’re so hard for me.” 

“Only for you,” Castiel agrees, then is caught by surprise by another moan surging out of him. 

“Want you to be mine,” Dean says in between kisses. Castiel knows he would never say something like this if he wasn’t high from orgasm, so he mostly discounts it, but still tucks the words away to replay them in his mind later. Maybe while touching himself. 

Still, Castiel replies, “I’ve always been yours. Since before Hell.” 

Dean looks at him reverently again, with a certain kind of devotion, and Castiel gives him a little smile. 

“I’m close, Dean,” Castiel says. 

Dean speeds up his hand, kisses Castiel with pure intent, and it’s just moments later that Castiel comes between them, making noises that will embarrass him later. 

“So good,” Dean whispers, “you’re so good to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reallyeleglantsharkfish](http://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com) on tumblr
> 
> *I named these two fics based on something genius that I can’t for the life of me remember now. It was probably a bible verse or a Lucero song or maybe a poem. Whatever; it’s too late to change the titles now. 
> 
> *Rumi poetry quotes from “Each Note,” “Granite and Wineglass,” and “Buoyancy” 
> 
> *The kissing poem is “My House” by Nicki Giovanni
> 
> *Castiel is reading Tamora Pierce’s Song of the Lioness series (apparently my headcanon includes Castiel loving YA literature)
> 
> *Gardinet quote from “Wet Dream” 
> 
> *Morning in the Burned House, Margaret Atwood; Breaking Poems, Suheir Hammad; Milk & Honey, Rupi Kaur
> 
> *”Hold Me Close” by Lucero (my favorite band go listen right now) 
> 
> *”Flockprinter” by Buddy Wakefield


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Castiel just nuzzles forward for another kiss. Their mouths move together, a little slowly, carefully and without sexual tension, just kisses that say_ I missed you _and_ I care about you _and, maybe,_ I love you.

Dean and Sam go on a hunt, and Castiel spends the four days they are gone worried sick. It’s just a little salt-n-burn, but Dean has been injured plenty during what seems like simple cases; Dean has nearly died so many times Castiel has lost count; Dean is everything to him, and he doesn’t know what he would do if Dean wasn’t around any longer. 

Dean assuages some of his anxiety by texting him every handful of hours, even while they are on the road. It’s not until he gets the text saying, _Headed home. See you soon_ that Castiel can breathe properly. 

Of course Dean is injured when he arrives. He’s covered in bruises and there’s a nasty cut above his eye from being tossed into a piece of furniture. Sam looks a little beat up, too, but as usual, Dean was the one behaving recklessly. 

Castiel fusses over Dean, bandaging up the cut on his forehead, and when they go to bed, Castiel spends long minutes leaving the gentlest of kisses on each bruise spread over Dean’s body. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Dean says. He’s blushing in the ambient light from the hallway. 

“The thing I regret most about falling is no longer being able to heal you,” Castiel says. 

“Cas,” Dean says. “This is not a big deal at all. I’ll be fine in a few days.” 

Castiel brushes his lips over a particularly nasty bruise over Dean’s ribcage. “Does it hurt to breathe? Did you bruise your ribs?” 

“Nah,” Dean says. He smiles down at Castiel, looking happy despite the bandage on his head and the bruises littering his body. “I’m just…” he pauses, licks his lips. “I’m just glad to be back here with you.” 

Castiel smiles so wide it hurts. Not only has he figured out how to make human expressions, but he can hardly control them anymore. Especially with Dean. 

“Come up here,” Dean says, gesturing.

Castiel settles on the bed next to Dean. They face each other, so close but not touching, and they are both still smiling like fools. Dean reaches up a hand and places it against Castiel’s cheek, and Castiel presses into the touch. Dean’s hand is warm and rough from shoveling open graves, and nothing has ever felt better. 

Slowly, like he’s still not sure if he’s allowed or not, Dean moves forward and presses his lips against Castiel’s. Both of their lips are chapped, but Castiel presses his tongue forward until it meets Dean’s and Dean gives a little sigh, a breath pushed into Castiel’s mouth. “God,” Dean whispers against his mouth -- Castiel thinks of reminding him to avoid the topic of his Father while they are actually involved in sinning, but stays quiet -- “you’re so perfect, Cas.” 

Childishly, Castiel wants to say “no, you,” but instead he just nuzzles forward for another kiss. Their mouths move together, a little slowly, carefully and without sexual tension, just kisses that say _I missed you_ and _I care about you_ and, maybe, _I love you_. 

 

It’s a few days later when Dean finds Castiel in the kitchen, making a huge sandwich to calm his rumbling stomach. 

“Sam made me listen to some of his shitty music again,” Dean says. He’s got Sam’s iPod again and sets it up on the speaker. “Thought you might like this one.”

Dean is blushing as the song starts. It’s a melancholy tune, chords strong but sad, and it says, _I feel the cold ground underneath my boots/and for no good reason/it reminds me of you_ and it says _Hold me close/I’m lucky more than you know/and I wanna make things right._

It’s all about Dean -- the drinking, the sadness, the boots on icy ground -- and Castiel smiles when it ends. “Thank you,” he says. 

Dean laughs it off. “Not like I wrote it or anything.” 

“No, but you… felt it. And you wanted me to feel it.” 

Dean crosses the space between them and grabs Castiel’s hands. “Sometimes I think I’m the luckiest man alive.” 

“Me too,” Castiel says. 

Castiel searches his poetry books for weeks, trying to find the perfect poem, the one that says I love you without saying it outright. The one that says I need you. I want you. Forever.

In the end, he chooses one he doesn’t entirely understand: 

_Flockprinter_  
_You have been a long time comin’_  
_and the clouds have rolled You in slowly._  
_But I ain’t made at the upshot sky._  
_Rain,_  
_it’s my lucky number._  
_It’s the author of release._  
_It taught me monsters are easy to come by_  
_so I went out and found the beast_  
_before we met_  
_when the assignment was to incomplete myself_  
_with sad songs and recycled insults,_  
_when I was spun out, eyes bagged_  
_teeth fist-first in lust and considering Jesus._  
_You were there._  
_You have been the whole journey,_  
_and I ain’t got nothin’ against goin’ home  
_ _to you, Flockprinter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reallyeleglantsharkfish](http://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com) on tumblr
> 
> *I named these two fics based on something genius that I can’t for the life of me remember now. It was probably a bible verse or a Lucero song or maybe a poem. Whatever; it’s too late to change the titles now. 
> 
> *Rumi poetry quotes from “Each Note,” “Granite and Wineglass,” and “Buoyancy” 
> 
> *The kissing poem is “My House” by Nicki Giovanni
> 
> *Castiel is reading Tamora Pierce’s Song of the Lioness series (apparently my headcanon includes Castiel loving YA literature)
> 
> *Gardinet quote from “Wet Dream” 
> 
> *Morning in the Burned House, Margaret Atwood; Breaking Poems, Suheir Hammad; Milk & Honey, Rupi Kaur
> 
> *”Hold Me Close” by Lucero (my favorite band go listen right now) 
> 
> *”Flockprinter” by Buddy Wakefield

**Author's Note:**

> [reallyeleglantsharkfish](http://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com) on tumblr
> 
> *I named these two fics based on something genius that I can’t for the life of me remember now. It was probably a bible verse or a Lucero song or maybe a poem. Whatever; it’s too late to change the titles now. 
> 
> *Rumi poetry quotes from “Each Note,” “Granite and Wineglass,” and “Buoyancy” 
> 
> *The kissing poem is “My House” by Nicki Giovanni
> 
> *Castiel is reading Tamora Pierce’s Song of the Lioness series (apparently my headcanon includes Castiel loving YA literature)
> 
> *Gardinet quote from “Wet Dream” 
> 
> *Morning in the Burned House, Margaret Atwood; Breaking Poems, Suheir Hammad; Milk & Honey, Rupi Kaur
> 
> *”Hold Me Close” by Lucero (my favorite band go listen right now) 
> 
> *”Flockprinter” by Buddy Wakefield


End file.
